


Do the Macarena

by lizimajig



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, macarena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizimajig/pseuds/lizimajig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory learns to love the Macarena. Ay!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do the Macarena

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a prompt at a journal hosted "cheering up" meme with the prompt "Amy/Rory, first kiss." Ficatory made me.

Rory still has a nasty hurricane of butterflies in his stomach when he thinks of the awkward conversation that followed his unceremonious and swift exit from Amy's house the night previous. He wishes she hadn't run after him, because it would have been much easier to have the No-I'm-Not-Gay-Yes-I'm-Seriously-In-Love-With-You(-And-Have-Been-Forever) conversation when he wasn't burning with the humiliation of having been caught in his own lie.

The conversation had been short and awkward. " _Well... am I at least going to see you at Jesse's tomorrow?_ " Jesse, who barely had enough brain cells to keep one another company and still looked at Amy as though she were a tall glass of water in a desert somewhere. " _Mels will be there too, with everyone else. It won't be a big deal._ " Translation: we don't have to have a Deep and Meaningful Conversation About This If You Don't Want To. (He does. He would just rather not do it when he has no idea what he wants to say and Amy, bless her, is a _now_ person.)

So now he's here in the home of a bloke he doesn't particularly like all that much (nor Jesse him, likely), standing in the kitchen and nursing a beer with a couple of other people who are taking a break from the party proper. 

Mels saunters past him to the sink, where she puts her plastic cup on the counter to mix another drink for herself -- heavy on the liquor. "You should slow down," he cautions. "Have some water, too."

"Okay, _Dad_ , if you insist," she answers with a good-natured eyeroll. 

He pulls a face in return. "Common sense never hurt anyone, Mels."

"Correlation does not necessarily equal causation," she sing-songs at him, uncapping the Coke to go in with the healthy splash of Captain Morgan. "Here's the thing, Rory: you have to go talk to Amy. She's not going to talk to you."

His cheeks burn, and all he can say is, "Mind your own business, Mels."

"Well, let's see: best friend one, and best friend two, and both are dragging this party down... yeah, this is my business," she says. Rory's pretty certain she's almost if not definitely drunk at this point; he doesn't know how much alcohol she's had already and even without the liquid courage, Mels is the very picture of 'brazen'. "Go on. Go take her in a manly fashion. She'll find it a turn on."

" _Melody Zucker_ , I'm not -- " He clamps down on his words, because he knows she's giving him a hard time, but even when he knows that she's teasing it's still merciless. 

"Yeah, 'course not, not your style, is it?" She throws an arm around his shoulders companionably, and gently steers him towards the door to the front room. "But you know what is your style? Rescue. Please, it'll be for all of us, Jesse is trying to dance with Amy and it's really more like a tortured Pina Bausch piece."

He isn't sure how Mels knows who Pina Bausch is, but decides that isn't the point. "That's kind of... rude." 

"Yeah, well. Truth hurts. Come on, I'll whisk Jesse off, and you just swoop in and do your thing, Romeo. I am making this super easy for the two of you. Don't make a hash of it." She pats his cheek fondly (although a bit harder than necessary if you asked Rory), and leaves his side, sidles up to Amy and Jesse. He can't hear them over the music, but they laugh about something Mels had said, and soon enough, Mels is guiding him away from Amy, and shoots Rory a look. _Now, you numpty. Go._

His mouth is dry like cotton, and the rest of his senses are a little fuzzy as well. He finishes his beer in one, long swallow in some ridiculous bid for courage, before he not-quite-so confidently heads Amy's way. She smiles when she sees him, which is a better start than he'd hoped for. "Hi," he says.

"Hi yourself," she says, her body still moving to the beat of this song that Rory doesn't quite recognize. "You've been hiding, I thought you'd be making a grand entrance or something."

"No. Just hiding," he admits with a note of self-deprecation. "Look, about last night -- " 

"Rory," she stops him, a hand on his arm. He sees in her eyes that she thinks better of it, that the gesture scares her, just a little, but she doesn't move. "It's okay," she replies, but he doesn't know what that means. Is it okay that he ran away like a rabbit who got caught gnawing on the goodies in the garden, or is it okay that he's been sick with love for her since he can remember? Or is it neither of those? 

"Okay," he agrees, deciding to just take the statement at face value. The song ends, and a new one begins, a pulsing beat that makes every head in the room turn and about a fifty-fifty split of groans and excited whoops and laughter. "This is the 21st century, who puts the Macarena on an iPod?" he demands, mostly joking, but he definitely thinks he could have lived a long, happy life without ever hearing that song again.

"Shut up!" Amy tells him, and laughs. "So are you going to dance it with me or are you going to make me do it alone?"

"I most certainly will not." He has precious little dignity left, but what he has will certainly be handled with care.

"Please? Please? _Ple-e-e-ease?_ " Each subsequent plea is accompanied with a change in tone or expression. They range from wheedling, to sad-faced, and to completely ridiculous.

"The only way I have ever passed muster at dancing is when there isn't any counting or actual synchronized movement involved!" he argues. 

"You know it. Your hands and arms are already twitching because they know what to do," she says teasingly, laughingly.

It's true. Since beat one his head has been counting _hand hand, palm palm, shoulder shoulder, head head, hip hip, uncross uncross, a-a-ay Macarena. TURN!_ "Is my expression of self-hatred not already enough for you?" he asks, mostly joking. It's a desperate bid, but he is losing this battle.

"Come on, stupid," she says fondly, grabbing his hands. And, since everyone else in the room seems to have entered some kind of silent contract to enjoy this nostalgic four minutes and then never speak of it again, he lets his movements match Amy's, and she continues to smile. 

It isn't so long, maybe three or four rounds of the _a-a-ay Macarena_ when he screws up. Amy laughs, not a cruel, mocking laughter but the happy, gentle kind that he wants from her always. "Oh my god you really are hopeless," she says pityingly through her laughter.

"Well I'm glad you're amused," he shouts over the music. He's given up on trying to keep up, so moves in a generic back-and-forth movement that seems to serve him well otherwise. 

He barely has time to react when he sees her coming in for what he assumes is going to be a short peck on the cheek. And he is _so_ , very and wonderfully wrong.

Their mouths touch, and for a moment that's all it is, his lips against hers -- one side of his brain protests, _no, wait, do over, I wasn't ready!_ and the other only thinks about the taste of her lip gloss (strawberry), and how he can smell her hair, falling loosely to her shoulders (something floral, something beautiful). Suddenly, instinct takes over and he feels her body relax as his hands go to her waist, and he meets her slightly parted lips ever so lightly with the tip of his tongue, discovering the layers of what she'd been drinking there (tequila and ginger ale). Finally, he feels her smile, and he withdraws, because he wants to see if her Just Kissed smile is different from the one he usually gets.

It is. It is far more brilliant than the sun. 

Rory likes the Macarena better now.


End file.
